On buying shit I don't need day, I bought a hobby horse, mounted it, and off we went. The Lucas gang robbed the bank.

Alongside them, I said, "Stop in the name of the law."

They did.

"Ride yourself over to jail."

They do.

At home, I tied my horse to a parking meter, turned, and saw a man picking a pocket.

"Stop thief."

"Yes, you."

I got deputized and rode the trail looking for outlaws. Told one to "reach for the sky."

His arms fell short.

"Reach," I said.

I left the womb complaining.

"Tight fit, Mom."

I walked the next day, wobbly at first, but when I sobered up, problem solved.

At two, I wrote my first book about a fish that couldn't swim. I illustrated it the year before.

I played the piano at age four, became a lawyer at five, was jailed for related reasons at six.

I became king of a small island nation at age seven was exiled to the royal forest a year later.

Still living there, still drinking some.

At night, I play piano while the trees dance cheek to cheek.

I made I never rode a lazy horse to a bank robbery, and sure my six-shooter was loaded.
Tipped my hat to the ladies.
"Looking sharp, Ma'am."
"Thank you, sir. "
I never shot anyone who didn't need shooting.
After the last job, I stopped at the first town I saw.

"Whiskey, barkeep, all-around."
The drinks were watered, the game was crooked.
Player stole my money while I was holding a full house.

"Don't reach, cowboy," he said.
Good advice. Here's some more.
Think through the robbery; think through the escape.

Clip.
Clop.
Can't do it on a lazy horse.

I'm not the first to hit the books, I'm the first they hit back. It was a romance novel; I never expected resistance. After the first punch hundreds of books flew off the shelves, including the Bible, Eye for an Eye version.

A librarian stopped the fight, made me return the books to their proper places, taped by glasses crookedly, and then escorted me out of the library.

"Card, pal."
"Don't come back."
Still angry, I hit the booze.
Booze hit back.
I fell to the floor.
Drunk, Dazed, Defeated. I puked, on me.
Barkeep watched the show.
Kept sweeping.

thebookhitthebooksrivera

When Albert walked in search of his lost marbles, he bypassed the banana peels lying in his way. Good show, he thought. 

He paid no mind to the tropical garden gracing the path along the way, or the lions and the lambs that watched him as he passed by.    

He did not notice the end of the pathway, the girls in bikinis below, or the drop of two thousand feet. 

Albert’s last fall, a spectacular flight, ended predictably. 

The girls did well selling souvenirs.

Pictures of Albert face down cost five dollars.

Pictures of Albert propped up cost five more.

Big Jim, the clown killer, roamed circuses to find victims.

Found twenty-three.

Dead clowns.

I was a lawyer. Don't know the law and didn't have much of a practice. To eat regularly, I turned to crime.
Now, I practice in prison. Big Jim, the clown killer, my client.

I spoke first.
Big Jim listened, then looked up. Studied me as if I were a clown without makeup.

Moved closer.
Finger on lips, he pondered.
Didn't say what he was thinking.

We meet again.
Big Jim, who only kills clowns, sits close.
He wants to hear my theory of the defense.

Thebookbigjimrivera

When Mary Lou and Tommy went at it, neighbors with nothing else to do would lip-synch the argument. Each was cheating on the other. When the carnival came to town, they thought a ride through the Tunnel of Love would save the relationship.

"Tickets, please."

But there, each kissed the other with poisoned lips.

When the ride ended, both were quite dead.

Police investigated. The other riders, largely teens, were annoyed.

Coitus interruptus.

By the time the stiff s were bagged, the teens were at Lover's Lane.

Some continued where they left off.

An unfortunate few could not recapture the mood.

Gerald Tiperino was not a big tipper, little tipper, or any kind in between. He was a petty thief who kept his money in his back-pants pocket.

One might assume he was upset when it escaped through a hole. He was, angry as a stepped-on rattler. Disinterested in fine points of law, he made a quick arrest, no trial, no lawyers, no innocent until proven guilty, no last words. He went straight to sentencing.

"May the Lord have mercy on your soul."

He used two clothespins; they grabbed like crocodiles.

It was over in a moment.

Tiperino hung his pants.

Cops took one look at the scene, found a blond hair, and made a quick arrest. The fat Sergeant with a toothpick in his crooked little mouth said, "Pick her up, boys."

She's my girl, and I know the rush-to-judgment coppers got it wrong. Butler did it. He left the trial joyously while my girl planned her last meal..

"Spaghet t i, please."

I followed him out. Shot him until he confessed. "Robbery gone bad. We did it together.

I saw her again; we dined alone. Midway through, warden came.

She refreshed her lipstick.
We kissed goodbye.
Then, she had to leave.

thebookaconvenientsupectrivera

We spent our first night together making love, and I
expected more to come.

"Call me."

"Sure thing, babe."

Then he reached over and grabbed an unfinished
cigarette.

On the way home, I was almost hit by the drunkest
driver. I ran back to the sidewalk. He missed me by a
mile. No matter, I was in love.

Crazy love.

I went to sleep expecting to wake up to roses at my
door. But there were no roses then, or ever. No nothing.
We spent a joyous night together; that was all he
had to give.

Short term.
But perfect.

The cat was on a steep church roof; the three blind mice ran far ahead. The farmer's wife, with a carving knife, ran close behind.

Sixteen wobbly legs leaped from the roof.

The mice, with seeing eye canes to guide them, landed in soft, fresh snow. The cat died on broken glass but had eight lives to go.

The farmer's wife, resembling sliced egg-colored red, stumbled far behind. She fell from the roof, landed dead, and remained so.

Someone stole her purse.

ME's conclusion. "Death by carving knife. Anniversary gift. Defective or intended unknown. "But it worked on its own. "1

Van Gouh was an artist with amateurish talent, but his paintings sold for millions. Stick figure men, mostly.

Critic Peter Souse felt the art world, pretentious as it was, needed a fraud, provided Van Gouh, and advanced his career.

Only when Souse, envious of his own creation, flooded the market with his own stick figure men -did the former friends became bitter rivals. Art critics debated who was the worse of the two.

The market for Gouh’s and Souce’s collapsed; each died penniless.

The stick figure ...